On Wednesday afternoon, as I walked back to the English department building from The Corner Cafe' with Neil's coffee, I mentally went through the various steps I had read on-line about how to curtsy. I planned to practice later in my office as well as that evening after Brooke and Luke went to sleep. Brooke had given me a new pair white lace fashion tights that morning that I wore under my khakis. The nylon and lace combination against my skin made me feel especially submissive. And I was still wearing the damned choker for the third day in row.
I decided that women's tights were not designed for long walks; I had to keep pulling them up and adjusting them as I walked (as inconspicuously as possible).
Neil's door was open when I walked up. I looked around the hall to see if anyone saw me bringing in the coffee (not that they would know it wasn't mine, although I was not known to be a big coffee drinker -- I tended to favor tea or even Diet Coke for my caffeine).
"Hey, pal."
"Hi, Neil. Here's your coffee. I also got you a blueberry muffin. I figured you're not an a diet, so I thought you might enjoy it."
"Thanks. Muffins are full of carbs and empty calories. But I did swim laps for an hour this morning, so I guess it's okay. You didn't have one, too, did you?"
"Are you kidding? I had an apple."
In fact, I ate my apple sitting across the table from Brooke as she enjoyed the toasted everything bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon I had prepared for her, my stomach growling. I wondered if Neil would offer to repay me for the coffee and muffin. He didn't, that day or in the future, which surprised me. I continue to genuinely like Neil, although many things about him have turned out to surprise me. Perhaps he thought that not paying me back was all part of enhancing my knowledge of masochism or something.
"Good man. Well, we should probably close the door so you can get started."
I closed the door. His office wasn't very large so there was only a small area next to his desk chair for me to work.
"What if someone just comes in?," I said.
"Everyone always knocks when the door is closed, especially when the light is on. But even if someone did, it's not like you're giving me a blowjob." He laughed. "It's just a foot massage, no big deal."
Objectively that was true, I suppose, but I felt that was easy for him to say, as the recipient of the massage. Foot massages were happening in nail salons, spas and massage parlors throughout the country at that very moment, without any suggestion of impropriety or anything sexual. Still, at least to a masochist like me, there was just something so fundamentally submissive about the act of kneeling in front someone and massaging the lowest part of their body. Call it the dirty mind of a masochist, I guess.
And sure enough, as I got down on my knees in front of my colleague, my cock began to throb in its cage. At times such as this, I was actually grateful to be locked up. I looked up at Neil, waiting for him to take off his brown, leather shoes (Rockports, I believe). But, as he made no move to do so -- I guess Luke had conditioned him to expect the full service treatment from me -- I untied his laces and removed his shoes. Meanwhile, he munched on his muffin. More stomach growls of envy from me.
"Would you like me to do the massage with your socks on or off?"
"Oh, definitely off. Just the way you did it at your place."
I removed his socks and began doing some warm-up twists, and then rubbing the arch of his right foot. While Neil's feet did not have the chiseled appearance of Luke's, they were not unattractive for male feet -- although they definitely could use some moisturizer. I made a mental note to bring some with me next week (as much for my own comfort as his).
"Man, that feels good." he sighed contentedly. "Three back-to-back classes are killer."
Neil and l actually had a pleasant conversation as I worked on his feet. We spent some time discussing my book. For my chapter covering 19th and 20th century fiction, I wanted his insight on Patrick Hamilton's novel, Hangover Square, which, while not overtly about cuckolding, was certainly about a serious male masochist. Hamilton's protagonist essentially becomes a simp to a manipulative failed actress who he is in love with and her fascist boyfriend. Suffering from dissociative identity disorder (and alcoholism), he eventually goes on a murderous rampage against his tormentors.
Some readers of my tale may either needlessly worry, or foolishly wish, that I will go on a murderous rampage against Luke and/or Brooke. That, of course, is beyond preposterous. First, I am not mentally ill. Second, I love Brooke and, but for erotic and obsessive love, I know that she loves me. Third, the relationship I have entered into with Luke and Brooke is one I pledged to do as a condition of marrying Brooke and keeping her in my life. I did it with full free will; I stay in it with full free will. Fourth, I have enough self awareness to know that another reason that I stay in the relationship is because it satisfies some deep masochistic need in me. Brooke saw this need in me before I saw it myself (I've always known that she is far smarter than I). Some no doubt believe I am totally devoid of self respect and despise me for my passivity, for not taking dramatic steps to end my subjugation. I would counter that someone who resorts to violence is far more pathetic and lacking in self respect than I.
Paul and Anna are a somewhat different story, as there is an element of coercion involved. But violence as a remedy is still unthinkable to me. And I have to admit that, like Brooke, I too have been caught up in "the game." My brain is my biggest sexual organ by far (it doesn't have much competition, admittedly), and I'm excited (both sexually and intellectually) to see how far they will take things. You probably have to be a masochist to understand...
To those readers who are sincerely worried about me and my mental health, I say: thank you, I genuinely appreciate your concern. One never knows for sure, but I think that I'll be okay. To those handful of judgmental readers who loathe me because I'm not doing what they believe they would do in similar circumstances, who despise me because I don't conform to their oversimplified concept of manhood -- you know who you are -- by forcefully taking matters into my own hands in some dramatic manner, I say: get over yourselves. I am not you; I'm me. And I'm probably more of a man than many of you are even when I'm dressed in a garter belt, stockings and a maid's cap, trying ineptly to curtsy to my superiors. But I digress.
Neil and I also discussed his upcoming tenure process. I assured him that he would have my full support in the consultation and subsequent letter of recommendation. I had just wrapped up his 45-minute massage with gentle squeezes to the tips of each of his toes and was about to put his socks and shoes back on his feet when there was a knock on the door. I quickly stood up and stepped to the other side of Neil's desk.
"Come in," said Neil.
